Christmas Lights
by lionesseyes13
Summary: An examination of several Christmases that shape Neville's life.


**Christmas Eve, 1980**

The fairy lights on the tree cast a golden glow that Alice felt burning warm and bright in her chest. Frank had insisted on the most ridiculously large tree they could get into the house, and Alice smiled at the memory of Frank dragging the thing through the front door.

Neville huffed in his sleep, bringing a tiny fist to squash into the soft swell of his cheek, and a scowl formed on his little round face.

Alice snuggled him close, swaddled as he was in a blanket that Augusta had knit – broad red and gold stripes to wrap her baby in the future that had been planned for him. Augusta meant well, but often Alice wanted to yell that he was four months old and he hadn't even learned to play yet. Alice wanted years of playing for him before he worried about houses and spells and - _please, please_ let it be over by then, so he never has to worry about Dark Lords, wars, and cloak-and-dagger operations that eat your soul while they steal your life.

She leaned over to press her cool cheek against his warm one and inhaled deeply the smell of sleepy baby and lavender-scented lotion.

"Love you," she cooed against his cheek. Neville blinked at her. "You have old eyes," she whispered. "It's Christmas. Tomorrow morning there will be presents and carols and Christmas pudding. Happy first Christmas, wee one."

"You coddle that boy." Augusta's voice broke into her quiet, luminous moment. She looked up to to see that Augusta and Frank had returned from shopping. "You both spoil him rotten. Look at this one," she said, gesturing at Frank who had several more parcels under his arms. Even Alice had to admit that so many gifts under the tree was a bit excessive for a child who could only just find his own hands.

"Well, Mother Longbottom, he won't lack for positive influences, will he?" Alice countered, hoping to fend off another 'a boy needs a strong hand' lecture. "You can make him a proper Gryffindor and we can balance it out with coddling."

A stout, silvery wolverine swooped into the room, shattering the peace and the warmth. Moody's voice growled out of the animal's mouth, "Attack in Durham. Meet at Headquarters now."

Her heart ached in protest as she handed Neville to Augusta. _One night, just one night off._

This night was supposed to be silent.

**Christmas Eve, 1981**

A warm hand closed on her shoulder as she lingered by Neville's bed, taking one last look, and letting her hand touch his soft cheek one more time. Neville's breaths were soft and even, and his sweet face was already flushed with sleep. Her heart swelled with hope. She couldn't imagine how it was possible to love him more and more with each passing day when each morning she already felt her love brimming over like the toys in the stocking hanging off Neville's crib, but it was.

"What've you got there, love?" Frank asked softly next to her ear.

"My wee boy," she said, smiling as the bells from the village church broke the silence and announced the coming of Christmas. "It's really over this time, isn't it?"

Frank's face lit with a slow, happy smile, and he slid his arm around her waist. "Let's go to bed," he murmured, taking her hand. "Father Christmas will be here in no time, and then it'll be time to get to Mum's."

Alice rolled her eyes. As much as a stuffy and proper meal at Augusta's would do nothing to spoil this Christmas, she wished that, during this first season of peace, it could be just the three of them. They'd stay in pajamas until noon, eat the pudding first, and let Neville pull the ornaments off the tree, and they'd laugh.

Outside, she heard the sounds of people talking and singing as they left the midnight service and headed to warm homes that glowed with candles and smelled of oranges and cloves.

**Christmas Eve, 1982**

Candles flickered on the mantle, a tree sparkled merrily in the corner, a single stocking, bulging with sweets and toys, was hung by the chimney.

Augusta's ears pricked at a whimper from down the corridor. She listened on the edge of her seat and sent a silent plea, _don't wake up._ Then, there was a little snore and a huff, and Augusta knew that Neville had drifted back to sleep.

The room looked like Christmas. The serenity of the night felt like Christmas. The Christmas pudding was waiting for tomorrow, as was the goose. Algie and Enid would arrive just before lunch, so every seat at the table would be filled. Neville would charm them, laughing at his presents and attempting to sing the carols he had learned from listening to the voices on the wireless that Augusta had left on constantly all week to mask the silence of the voices that would never be here again. Neville would spend his Christmas in a room full of old people.

Alice had cast a certain kind of light. The room had always seemed a bit brighter when she was in it. Augusta had thought, when she first met Alice, that the glow came from how Frank had looked when Alice was near him. Then, she supposed, she had become accustomed to it, because she had not noticed it again until it was gone.

Frank had filled the house with laughter and stories. Since boyhood, he'd nattered on about this and that and half the time Augusta didn't even know what he was talking about. His voice, rich and mellow, had sounded so much like Neville Sr.'s when he was young.

Algie would ask if the boy had shown any signs of magic yet. Augusta would remind him that Neville was barely two-and-a-half with a dismissive wave of her hand, remembering full well that Frank was not quite two the first time he transfigured his porridge into chocolate custard.

Sometimes she missed him so much, it made her bones hurt.

**Christmas Day, 1987**

The Christmas pudding was perfect. She'd made it months ago then left it to settle and firm in the shed, just as her grandmother had. Nothing-- no charm or glamour-- could achieve the look and texture of that time to rot. It looked a bit different from the ones her grandmother had served, as there were no brightly colored bits of candied peel in it. Looking at it, she remembered how when Frank was eight, he declared that he hated peel, and each bit embedded in his lump of pudding had exploded with a small pop, splashing droplets of custard all over the table. She'd never put peel in a pudding since then.

The sound of scolding came from the other room, followed by a loud, "The boy's fine, Enid." Augusta sighed and wiped her hands on her apron and went to see what accident had befallen Neville this time.

Augusta entered the front room to find Neville dangling from the curtain rod, looking rather acquiescent.

"He can do it. He'll get himself down, I know he will," Algie insisted.

Neville turned his gaze to Augusta and she had to blink as the round features and deep eyes reminded her so forcefully of Alice. She swallowed around the irritating lump in her throat.

With a flick of her wand, she lowered him back to the floor. "Leave the boy, Algie. You can't force it. If he has no magic, he has no magic."

The look of hurt on Neville's face left her no doubt that she'd made a mess of things. He seemed to prefer Algie's misguided, borderline-abusive tactics to her resignation. Still, she thought, it was best just to get on with things.

Raising Frank had been comparatively easy, or it hadn't been easy at all, but it had been so long ago that the trials had faded from her memory.

"Time to open presents, I should think," Augusta remarked, as she turned her back on the scene. "I think that lad's been patient enough."

Neville carefully opened his packages, folding the wrapping paper as he went and placing it in a pile next to him. Frank had always torn them apart, laughing as he threw paper everywhere, no matter how she scolded.

Neville thanked them properly for each of his gifts, and placed books, sweets, and an enchanted lorry in a neat pile by his feet until he got to the gift from Enid. The large, white box was heavy and marked, "This end up."

Neville carefully slid open the top and pulled out the seedling puffapod in its terracotta pot. A small booklet with information on care and magical properties fell into his lap.

"Thank you," he said in a small voice. "It's wonderful."

Augusta shook her head in bewilderment at the seven-year old boy who ignored the bright red lorry bumping at his ankle, almost pleading to play, in favor of poring through every word of _Care, Feeding, and Enjoyment of Your Puffapod._

**Christmas Morning, 1988**

The edges of the sky outside Neville's window were just beginning to turn a pale, misty grey. He jiggled his feet and clenched and unclenched his fists. The clock on his bedside table told him that it was definitely morning, and that meant he could get up – although he feared that Gran wouldn't see it that way.

Neville inched his feet over to the edge of his bed and let them dangle downwards, noting with pleasure that he was nearly tall enough to reach the floor. As they met the icy floorboards, he jerked them back up. Carefully, Neville stretched a toe way out and nudged a slipper over to where he could slip into it. Then, he hopped the one step over to the other slipper, put on one slipper then the other, and pulled on his dressing gown before leaving his room.

The floorboard just outside his Gran's door creaked like a rusty hinge if you stepped on it. She had once told him that his Grandpa had tricked it so he could catch his dad sneaking out to run amok with his friends. Neville wondered why Gran had never fixed it, and if he would ever run amok with friends, and what exactly 'amok' meant.

He tiptoed so cautiously up to the creaky board that he over-balanced and stepped right on it. He froze as the noise echoed through the house. When he heard Gran shift in her bed and resume her even breathing, Neville let out his breath and continued quietly down the corridor and into the front room.

The lights on the tree twinkled and the icicles Gran had conjured reflected every color of the rainbow. The house was so silent that his breathing sounded loud enough to wake her. He tried to be as quiet as the snow outside, but he couldn't suppress a gasp at the sheer number of red, gold and silver packages under the tree. He stuck his hands in his pockets to stop himself from digging into the pile.

Christmas should be good this year. Everyone seemed very pleased with him since he had bounced. He was pleased, too, mainly because the bounce had taken that look from Gran's eyes. It was also good just to get to talk, play, or read with Uncle Algie now that he was much less likely to do something alarming like dangle him out the window.

"Neville, what on earth are you doing up?"

He wasn't certain, but he thought one of the parcels gave a little hop at the sharp sound of her voice. He turned around to see Gran, bleary eyed and just pulling her dressing gown around her.

"Sorry," he said, looking away from her eyes. "I just wanted to see if Father Christmas had come or not." He looked up through his fringe and smiled a little when he saw that she didn't look too put out.

He didn't believe in Father Christmas anymore, not since last year when Gran had stepped on the creaky board. He'd leapt out of bed in time to see her entering her room, the plate of biscuits and butterbeer they'd left out for Father Christmas in her hand. He didn't think she wanted him to know. It was a bit of a game, like when they pretended that now he could really do magic.

"Now that you've seen that he has, how about another hour or so of sleep, young man?" she asked. She didn't sound overly annoyed, and for that he was grateful.

"Okay, I'll try," he said, eyeing the packages.

"Never mind," Gran said, gesturing at him to sit down next to her. "Since you've roused me at this hour, there is one I'd like you to open when it's just you and me."

She kneeled by the tree and pulled a narrow red parcel tied with a gold ribbon so large that it flopped over the side of the box. She suddenly looked very somber, and Neville was certain it wasn't a toy.

Neville held the box in his lap, staring at it, almost frightened of it. He knew what this was. This was the box that sat on the corner of Gran's dressing table, next to the photo of his grandfather. He pulled the ribbon and slipped his finger along the seam of the wrapping paper. The wand lay in its box, cradled in layers of fine paper.

"You're giving me Dad's wand?" he asked, scarcely believing that she would trust him with such a precious thing.

"It's time for you to have it," she said as if this were an obvious fact. "A great wand, belonging to a great wizard. Now it's yours."

Neville felt a bit like when Uncle Algie hung him from things. He liked that Uncle Algie made an effort and thought he could do it, but he hated the look on his face when nothing happened.

"Thank you," he said, trying to sound as important as the wand was supposed to make him. "I'll tell Dad as well, when we see him tomorrow."

"That's right," Gran answered, the shadow that flickered across her face in contrast to the twinkling lights on the tree. "Now then, Algie and Enid will never know if we open a few more before they come. Here, I think this one's sweets."

**Christmas Day, 1991**

"Ten years, Frank, ten years," Gran said. She tidied his dad's hair and straightened his pajamas, tutting disapprovingly at his untidy appearance. Neville felt like he wasn't supposed to be here, watching her take care of his father like that. He honestly couldn't ever remember her combing his hair, although she certainly straightened his clothes regularly. "And your Neville's finished his first term at Hogwarts."

"Hog's warts," Alice repeated. She pressed an empty Chocolate Frog packet into his hand. He ran a finger inside and felt for the card, but it was gone as well.

He whispered, "Thanks Mum," and shoved it into his pocket, as Gran kept talking about how his marks hadn't been as good as Frank's, but he'd finished the term and all of his exams nonetheless. She even said that his mum and dad should be pleased.

Neville felt a warm hand on his and looked up to see his mum's smiling face as she handed him another bit of rubbish. He stored it safely in his pocket and pushed out the thought that it might mean something-- that she had understood and really was proud of him.

It was odd and wrong for Gran to tell them things as if they might understand. He found it unsettling. Their real lives didn't belong in this pretend place.

**Christmas Day, 1993**

Neville pulled at the tight collar of his dress robes. He felt utterly ridiculous, trussed up like the goose, just to have dinner at home. Gran had insisted that he dress for dinner this year and found the combination of singe marks, remnants of Herbology experiments, and smudges from past dinners on all of his regular robes completely unacceptable.

The robes he had worn this morning were lying on a heap on the floor. Seeing an excuse to delay joining the group in the front room, he picked them up and shook them out before hanging them back in his closet.

A bubble gum wrapper and a tin foil pull-top from a cup of applesauce fell to the floor, keepsakes from his Christmas with his parents. When he was little, the visits had been easy. Not fun, exactly, but not as horrible as Uncle Algie and Aunt Enid seemed to think they were. Neville thought that perhaps he wouldn't actually know if it was horrible since he'd never known anything else. However, since he had been invited to attend Hogwarts, Gran had begun the disturbing trend of talking to Dad as if he were, well, normal.

He hated it. He couldn't say precisely why, particularly because these were the times he heard most about how he'd pleased her – _doing well in Herbology, friends with Harry Potter, made it through another term_ – and she left out all the things she said to Uncle Algie and Aunt Enid and Neville himself – _should have better marks in transfiguration, Potions was one of Frank's best subjects, never invites a friend round._

He reached under his bed and pulled out a cigar box. It was almost full. Soon he would have to find a place for it among the rows of others, deeper under his bed, and ask Uncle Algie for another one. Spilling from the box as he opened it were chewing gum wrappers, chocolate frog packets, the paper from the drinking straws the patients at St. Mungo's used, and a couple of scraps of parchment with childish scribbles on them. Those were precious and rare.

Gran and her friends voices drifted out into the corridor. He knew there would be hot, sweet tea, bottles of wine, too many hors d'oeuvres for any group of people who planned to eat dinner in less than an hour, and too many questions about Hogwarts and how he was doing and what Harry Potter was really like.

For now, all he really wanted was not to be noticed. Well, he thought, looking at the photo of his parents on his bedside table, young and strong and happy, perhaps he did want to be noticed, but not for the reasons he ever was.

He'd like to stand up to her one of these days, tell her he's tired after visiting St. Mungo's, that it's his Christmas, too, and he'd like to stay in his room and tend his still-thriving puffapod. Maybe he'd take his tea in the kitchen, alone or with Aunt Enid, who hated the dinner parties and all the talking to near-strangers as much as he did.

"Bugger," he said, as he stepped on the creaky board in the hallway.

"Neville?" Gran called from the front room and he could tell from her tone that he'd lingered over-long in his room.

He stepped into the warm front room, effervescent with the burbling voices of people who had enough food, and perhaps a bit too much drink for this time of day. 

Several faces beamed at him. "Here's the lad," said one.

"How are you getting on at school?" asked another.

Neville gave them a weak smile and a weaker answer. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Aunt Enid make her exit to the kitchen with a mumbled excuse about checking the sauce. He was almost certain she beckoned to him as she slipped through the swinging door. 

**Christmas Eve 1997**

The same fairy lights that had twinkled on the tree each year since before he could remember lit the front room with gold, casting a hush across the room that was magnified by the falling snow.

"Here you are, then," Gran said officiously, placing a tray with hot chocolate and biscuits on the coffee table. "I'll leave you young ones alone." She smiled tightly at Ginny, and it occurred to Neville that this was the first time he'd had a friend to his house during the holidays.

It wasn't the best reason for a visit. They were planning the course of the DA for the next term. They were discussing how best to avoid their members being tortured, not exactly the usual Christmas Eve conversation. Luna was supposed to be here. They were supposed to finish the discussion they'd begun on the train.

_"So, it's settled," Ginny said as soon as the compartment door swung shut, picking up her quill to continue making notes. "We'll organize security patrols, sixth and seventh years, in shifts…"_

"Can we call them something else instead?" Luna asked. "Patrols sounds like a word they would use. Perambulations is nicer." Luna let the word roll off her tongue and shrugged.

"I don't care what we call it as long as we keep an eye on the Carrows, Snape, and Filch," Ginny said irritably. "What we've been doing isn't working anymore."

"I actually think she has a point," Neville said, and he lifted his hand as Ginny looked at him incredulously. "No, Ginny, we want to make the lines between the way they do things and the way we do things as clear as possible."

"Right," Ginny said, rolling her eyes. "So, when we're on our security perambulations, how are the people who don't have coins going to let us know if there's a problem?"

"I would let someone borrow mine. We might share them out," Luna said and she quietly added, "'Though, I would like it back."

"That might be all right," Neville said, rubbing his eyebrows and temples in an effort to stimulate his brain. "I wish we knew how to do the talking Patronus thingy. Think Harry knows how to do that by now?"

"I think Hermione might," Luna answered. "Otters are very intelligent."

"Bill!" Ginny exclaimed. "I bet Bill would teach me. He knows what we're up against at school. He says we're as good as the junior Order and that's what they use."

"If he's at the Burrow for Christmas, I could come by. Dad would love the chance to search the hill on the way for Blibbering Humdingers," said Luna, pulling absently at a strange flower she had embroidered on her robes.

Neville could see Ginny thinking that the idea of Blibbering Humdingers on the hills was utter rubbish but knowing that one more of the DA learning first-hand would be dead useful. 

_"Brilliant," Ginny said, smiling at Luna with genuine warmth. "I'm certain he'll do it." _

Then he'd gone to use the loo and change into Muggle clothes before the train pulled in to the station. Ginny had gone to tell some of the others they'd have a new plan come next term, a gesture meant to keep spirits up over the holidays.

By the time they got back to the compartment, the train was puffing to a stop at platform 9 ¾ and Luna was gone. Odd exits and entrances were not uncommon for Luna, so they'd assumed she'd be round to the Burrow at Christmas.

But then Ginny's owl to Luna and her father had been returned with a message that was strange even for Luna, and the writing didn't quite look like hers. Every owl that they'd sent her since had come back with another Luna-ish but not-quite-right responses, and Bill was suddenly not going to be at the Burrow for Christmas, so here they were back to square one, and without Luna, they were back to planning patrols.

"Right then. See you back at school, such as it is," Neville said as he walked Ginny to the door. Ginny reached to give his hand a squeeze in farewell.

Neville went back to the front room to tidy up their cups and plates and found Gran was sitting in chair by the fire that he'd just vacated. She was turning a small piece of paper over and over in her hand.

Her expression was unreadable, or at least it was one he'd never seen, when she glanced up at the sound of his footfall.

"Neville, you may complete your education at home," she said. Her words tumbled into the room and stopped him where he stood. "I could hire in a tutor and old Mrs. Drumond has a brother who runs a greenhouse. Perhaps you could apprentice."

"Sorry?"

"It's not acceptable for you to be treated in such a manner in an institution of learning," she said. "You've obviously captured their attention," she paused and Neville could hear pride tinged with something else that he thought might be _not again_ in her voice. "You and your friends have made yourselves targets. I don't know what Minerva's…never mind. I am offering you the chance to stay home if you wish."

Neville sat down heavily in the chair behind him and resisted the urge to ask for further explanation, because while what she was saying was abundantly clear, it was the last thing he'd ever thought he'd hear from her.

"No, I have to go back. I want to go back," he said. He gestured at the front door through which Ginny had recently departed. "Ginny, Luna, and the others count on me. Harry will come. Harry will come back. When he does, he'll need us, and I have to make sure everyone is ready."

She didn't get up, but seemed to rise several inches in her seat. "I told Enid that's what you'd say," she muttered almost to herself. His gran looked at him with the closest he'd ever seen to pride and said, "You'll let me know if you need anything."

"I would like to go and see Mum and Dad tonight, as well as tomorrow. It is Christmas Eve, after all," Neville said cautiously.

"All right, then," Gran said, nodding. "All right. We'll do that."

She handed him the bit of paper she'd been holding. It was a photo, old and dog-eared and not one he'd seen before.

Uncle Algie or Aunt Enid must have taken it. Dad was sitting in front of the tree, in the same place, with the same lights that were in front of Neville now. He had one arm slung around Gran's shoulders and the other around Mum's. Their eyes were bright and intelligent, not like the vapid ones he had always known. He, as a toddler, was snuggled between Gran and Mum, so close to both that he couldn't tell in whose lap he was sitting. His mother leant down to place a kiss on his hair, and it looked as if she lingered a moment to inhale.

He turned the photo over and read the inscription on the back. It was written in the graceful hand that he knew had been his mother's before her writing became the scribbles he had hidden away in his cigar boxes under the bed.

_Merry Christmas, 1981. All is bright. Love, Frank, Alice, and Neville._

"Thank you," he said, his voice almost a whisper. "I'll put this away, and then we'll go and see Mum and Dad?"

Neville rubbed his face and spluttered a bit, wiping dust from his face, as he shimmied back out from under his bed. Somehow, the photo didn't seem to belong in a frame or one of those little plastic sleeves people keep in their wallets.

He retrieved a long, narrow box, its faded red paper peeling and cracked. The one remaining fragment of the wand that had belonged to his father, and never really to him, rattled in the corner of the box. Next to it he placed the most recent note'from his mother. On top of both, he put the photo.

He slid the box into the top of the case he'd packed to come home for the holidays next to the little pouch in which he'd put his DA galleon and the photo of the DA that Colin Creevey had given them all as Christmas presents two years earlier.

He pulled on his cloak, and as he and Gran stepped into the bright, cold air, the village church bells began to ring out a carol.


End file.
